


Saran Wrap Delivery

by compo67



Series: Chicago Verse [132]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Domestic, Curtain Fic, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester, Established Relationship, Growing Old Together, Hell Trauma, M/M, Old Married Couple, POV Dean Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Sam Winchester, Psychic Bond, Sam Winchester to the Rescue, Soul Bond, Stress Baking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-01
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:09:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: On a rainy day in September, Dean bakes a pie. Not just any pie. Chocolate pecan pie





	Saran Wrap Delivery

On a rainy day in September, Dean bakes a pie.

Not just any pie. 

Chocolate pecan pie.

In fact, the recipe he’s using boasts the grandiose title, “Utterly Deadly Southern Chocolate Pecan Pie.” He’s been around enough truck stop diners over the course of his lifetime to weed out the authentic recipes from the ones that dare to suggest that he attempt to make it low-fat. This one seems promising. 

Flour covers his hands as he works the dough. KitchenAid his ass. Real bakers use their hands. It was a gift from Kevin, last Christmas. And okay. Fine. He hasn’t quite figured out how to work the damn thing. Small kitchen appliances continue to elude him. 

It’s not like the motels and run down rental homes had shit like appliances or working ovens.

Focus.

What was it he overheard one of the self-help quacks on the radio spout? Stay in the moment. Be mindful. He switches his attention to the dough forming in his hands. The dry ingredients were easy enough to toss together, but the damn cubes of chilled, unsalted butter resisted. He used a bladed dough blender to help make the butter his bitch. 

Wait. Strike that. 

He used a bladed dough blender to force the butter to cooperate. 

There. Better. He promised Sam he’d cut down on the number of times he refers to things as ‘his bitch,’ and it’s more difficult to do than expected. Weird how that works. In another universe, maybe Sam grew up an only child of a Harvard-educated power couple with an interest in the misogynistic undertones of pop culture phrases and linguistics. 

Dean doesn’t fight against a brief smile as he thinks about Sam graduating from Harvard. Stanford seemed super prestigious to Dean back in the day. But what if Sam had gone to Harvard? 

What stops Sam from still going to Harvard and earning a legit law degree? 

Sam would excel. Fuck, Sam would be valedictorian of his class. Do they have valedictorians at Harvard Law School? Wasn’t Elle Woods valedictorian at the end of  _ Legally Blonde _ ? How sad is it that his only reference to Harvard Law School is  _ Legally Blonde _ . 

And how much sadder is it that Sam still gets frustrated over Dean elbowing him about Elle’s higher score on her LSATs. Because she did. She scored higher than Sam. 

Dean may agree to  _ try _ and be less of an asshole.

That doesn’t mean he  _ can’t _ be an older brother. It’s his solemn duty to give Sam shit.

Why are his thoughts so fucking disjointed? 

He almost overworks the pie dough. Shit. Fuck. Shit. 

Saran wrap. Did he remember to buy some from Costco? He could also use a new pie plate. Why the hell does he only have one pie plate? 

Abandoning the dough, he begins searching through cupboards and drawers. His muscles respond to these questions by tensing and twitching. Baking pie shouldn’t be stressful. It should be zen. 

Relax. 

Chill, like this pie dough will, once he finds the goddamn plastic wrap. 

Cereal. Tea. Aluminum foil. Cupcake liners. Cookie sheets, including the one he burned the shit out of trying to broil steaks when he couldn’t find the broiler pan. The goddamn broiler pan. Cake pans. Stray salt and pepper packets collected from a variety of take out places. In the event of a malevolent spirit crashing their evening, Sam and Dean are guaranteed safety based on what he finds in this one cupboard. 

The drawer directly to the left of the stove refuses to open. Clearly, the kitchen plots against him. After some healthy swearing and bicep flexing, the drawer loses its battle. Knives clatter inside the drawer from their rude awakening. 

No saran wrap. 

But plenty of steel selections. 

Dean slams the drawer shut. He doesn’t crave the taste of human blood. And he definitely doesn’t miss the sensation of blood dripping down his chin, lingering down the column of his throat, tracing over his own sated veins and arteries. 

Tools in the kitchen do not remind him of crueler instruments. 

Leaning against the sink, hands braced on the cool countertop, he stares hard at the drain. Must not close eyes. Darkness will only amplify it all. The sink. The faucet. The purple soap dish Sam bought from the dollar store on Ashland. The name brand sponge and dish soap Dean insists on buying. These are his friends. They wouldn’t hurt him. They wouldn’t want him to hurt himself.

A drop of sweat falls on his hand. 

He pulls his hand back and pushes away from the sink.

It’s not a snake. 

Only sweat. 

There’s ground beef defrosting in the fridge. 

Quality shit. He bought it from the butcher on May Street. Grass fed, organic, 80/20--perfect for burgers and meatloaf. There’s an Alton Brown recipe for meatloaf he is fixing to try tonight. 

Unless. 

Unless he crawls on all fours to retrieve the meat. The reward. The gift. Then he can tear into the package, shred the shiny white butcher paper that contains it, and sink his teeth into crimson…

“Saran wrap delivery,” Sam shouts from the front door, noisily tossing his keys onto the side table. 

In five or six hurried, almost panicked steps, Sam reaches the kitchen. 

Argue.

Brush it off.

Crack a joke.

The ABCs of Winchester Emotional Regulation. 

He was close.

And he’d like to be far, far away.

Within the split second before Sam reacts, Dean holds his arms out. 

Sam fills the space. Warm. Solid. Real. 

He can close his eyes now. And stay secure in the crook of Sam’s shoulder for the moment. 

A familiar hand rests on his head. A familiar nose nudges at his cheek. A familiar voice echoes in his mind. 

_ We gotta hold onto what we’ve got. It doesn’t make a difference if we make it or not. We’ve got each other and that’s a lot for love. We’ll give it a shot--take my hand, we’ll make it I swear, livin’ on a prayer. _

Sam is everything.

For once, pie can wait.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Octoberween! I love October. I love Halloween. I'm so excited. XD
> 
> I've been dealing with a lot of hyper-awareness lately because I also have PTSD, so I thought maybe I'd channel it into TCV. And of course, Sam to the rescue! Complete with Bon Jovi goodness. Thanks and shout out to Deb, who helps me write my best work. Credit to her for Bon Jovi.
> 
> Happy fall, y'all! <3


End file.
